The Rift in The Relations
by Sophia Lawliet
Summary: Alternate storyline for Hole in the Heart/6.22.  When one of their own is on the brink of death, the team struggles to hold it together.  But when one of the family is missing…things have the tendency to go awry.  T for language in later chapters.
1. Slipping Away

**Author's Note: **I was unhappy about the death of a certain squintern, obviously. So I decided to write this as an alternate sort of plot. I do not own Bones or any of the characters. Please be kind, as I am not a particularly skilled writer (though I enjoy it greatly) and this is my first fic.

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><p>The shot rang out loud, rough, quick, smashing two glass windows and hurtling towards them. He acted on instinct, tackling Mr. Nigel-Murray to the ground, out of harm's way. Brodsky, of course. But from where? And how? The questions flashed through his mind like fast-forwarded commercials on a TV screen, too quick to process, too quick to come to a conclusion. <em>We were just on the phone with him. <em>The thought was almost sickening. He'd been aiming his gun while they answered the phone… "Everyone okay?" he asked, sitting back to allow the squintern up off the floor.

"Booth."

There was more emotion in that single word than there had been in the whole conversation leading up to the shot. Shock. Terror. Panic. A trace of desperation. It wasn't the Bones he was used to. "Oh god…" Booth's gaze shifted to Vincent, a feeling of cold dread seeping into him. He hadn't tackled the British intern in time. Blood leaked from the wound in his chest, already staining his lab coat red and seeping onto the floor. Booth hastily dropped to his knees, pressing both hands to press down on the wound.

"We need an ambulance! Someone's been shot!" The hysteria in Brennan's voice was subtle, but still there, her eyes wide and horrified. Several security workers went running, glancing back nervously and the wounded man on the ground. The looks on their faces were mixed. Some grim, some panicked, and some shocked. Things like this weren't supposed to happen. They solved murders, not because victim to them. Then she turned, crouching down next to the intern, hand resting on his left knee.

"Vincent, can you hear me?" Booth leaned forward slightly, pushing down harder on the intern's chest. Anything to stop the flow of blood. The intern's breaths were short, labored, but he managed a nod, pale faced and dazed as he was.

"Vincent, you have to stay conscious, okay?" Brennan's eyes were wide, "Help is on the way."

"Vincent, I've got to apply pressure on this wound," Booth looked the intern in the eye. _Why were they using his first name so much?_ A dull voice asked in the back of his head, _he'd always just been Mr. Nigel-Murray, before._ "I know it hurts, but I have to apply the pressure." The intern was already shaking his head, barely perceivable movements.

Vincent shuddered, "D-doesn't…doesn't…it doesn't hurt." He managed, trembling.

"That's good, right Booth?" Bones looked at him, eyes hopeful. Begging him to tell her that he would be okay.

"Yeah, that's good." Booth wasn't sure what made him say it, the words tasting bitter to him. If he couldn't feel it…

"P-please…please don't…don't make me leave," the intern was shivering violently, eyes struggling to remain open as his gaze fixed on Dr. Brennan.

"No, you don't have to leave," Brennan once again turned towards Booth, questioning, unsure of what Vincent meant. Looking for an answer. He didn't have one.

"I love…I love being here. Don't…just don't make me leave." Vincent almost pleaded, trying desperately to stay awake.

"We love you here! We don't want you to leave." It was heart shattering, as Booth watched his partner's eyes well up. She shook her head frantically. Booth pushed down even harder, the blood making a sickening squelch between his fingertips. Vincent's blood. _It wasn't supposed to be him. Brodsky didn't want him. I was the one who handed him the cell phone…_

Vincent's head fell back, nearly hitting the tile floor as he let out a barely perceivable gasp. His eyelids began to flutter closed, breathing hitching.

"Open your eyes, Vincent," Booth ordered. The boy couldn't die. It wasn't supposed to be him…couldn't be him. "Stay with me!" He was pleading now, too. It wasn't just Brennan. He couldn't die now. The ambulance couldn't be more than two or three minutes away, there was a hospital less than four miles from the institute.

It was a moment before the intern opened his eyes again, "I…" he was gasping, desperately trying to take in air. Hyperventilating almost, breaths growing quicker and quicker by the second. "I…please don't…" his forehead was sweaty, expression growing more pained, "just don't make me go." Brennan was shaking her head, the tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. "I love…don't want to go, I love…it's been lovely…being…here…" Booth was shaking his head, trying to convince the bleeding man on the ground- trying to convince himself- that it would be okay. "With…with…"

"No!" The cry ripped from his partner's mouth, her hair rumpled, a few strands falling in her face, "You can stay here with us as long as you like, Vincent." He let out a gasp. The pause between it and the next breath was far too long. Sirens. Booth could hear sirens in the distance. They were coming. Twenty seconds, he estimated, twenty seconds until the ambulance would arrive. It didn't look like it would be enough.

"Please…please don't…I l-l-love…I…" the intern let out a quiet whimper.

"You're my favorite!"

The statement surprised Booth, even in this situation. Was she just saying that, trying to convince him, throwing anything out there that might have a glimmer of a chance of getting him to inhale again, to draw another breath? It didn't sound like it. Her tone…her face…it was like a confession, raw truth, a last ditch effort. A last ditch effort for her favorite.

"Everyone knows that, right, Booth?" Brennan gave him another imploring look, "Booth? Booth!" Her voice rose in volume.

He didn't answer her, eyes locked with Vincent's. _Breath. Please breath. _There was a shaky gasp as Vincent trembled against the floor. He waited for the next breath. It didn't come.

The next few moments passed by in a blur. EMTs pounded into the room, calling frantically to each other, bending down beside the form of the British intern. A stretcher was rolled in, faster than on any hospital drama he'd ever seen. Somehow, they got him onto it…he wasn't putting pressure on the wound anymore, someone else was, a gloved hand pushing rather than his bare one. It was happening, but Booth wasn't registering the noise. It was though he was watching a television on mute. Perhaps something in another world, on another planet. _Is he dead? He can't be dead. They wouldn't be doing this if he was dead. _Everything seemed numb, dull, distant. A pair of blue eyes made contact with him, for the briefest moment, as the intern's head fell to the side. Then they fluttered shut.

It seemed like just a moment before he was gone.

"Booth? Booth!" Brennan's voice was panicked, and he realized she had him by the arm, was shaking him.

"Bones," he turned and gripped her shoulder, tightly. How much time had passed since he'd been trapped by the intern's closing eyes? Had they opened again? He didn't know. But it couldn't have been more than a minute. The sound of the sirens were fading, rapidly.

"Vincent…Vincent…he…you were staring after them…" he voice quaked, "I don't think he's…" The tears, the tears from earlier, flowed over, spilling down her cheeks. Brennan let out a sob, burying her head against his chest, arms sliding around his neck. "This is all my fault," the anguished wail was muffled by his shirt.

It wasn't her fault. He knew it, and if he could just reason with her, she would too. But now was not that time. Now was the time to hold her tightly, protectively in his arms and let her cry. And not let go until it was time. They needed to get to the hospital, Booth realized. It wasn't like they could call Vincent's family, and if he didn't…no. "Bones…" he trailed off, resting his chin on her shoulder. Brennan didn't answer, her body wracked with sobs. "It will be okay."

He hoped he wasn't lying to her.

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><p>It took very little to ruin your day, Angela Montenegro realized soon after three thirty that afternoon. One person. One gun. One phone call. Two seconds. Three words.<p>

They were standing on the corner of Humphry Street and Wilmont Drive, waiting for the light to change. It had been her idea to go walk to the pizza place for lunch- she had been craving pizza. And, as she had told her husband, getting fat was inevitable if she drove everywhere. Five minutes later she had been regretting that idea immensely, but far too stubborn to change her mind. They were less than twenty yards from the restaurant- it was twenty yards away, for the love of god. The light seemed almost stubborn in its refusal to turn red and allow the cars going to other way- and them- to cross the street.

Hodgins was shifting from foot to foot impatiently, glaring at the cars in the street as though they had personally offended him. "Dammit, change already." Angela resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her husband's speech to the light, it wasn't like it could hear him. She rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

That was when her cell phone went off. 'Take me out to the Ball Game' played mutely from inside her purse. Angela stifled a sigh, wondering what the FBI agent could possibly want. At over eight months pregnant, even reaching into her bag to retrieve a cell phone seemed like a chore. Yanking out the mechanical device, and using one hand to brace herself against a traffic light, Angela pressed a button an help it up to her ear. "Booth, this better be important, because I-"

"Brodsky shot Vincent."

The shock hit first. The trickling feeling of cold horror like an ice cube being dropped down her back. Than the dread, coursing through her veins. The feelings must have been displayed on her face, because Hodgins frowned, before walking over and putting an arm around her. She didn't look at him. Lunch was forgotten. Pizza had never been further from the artist's mind.

"We don't know from where." Booth's voice was heavy, tired, emotionless.

"Is…is he…?" Angela trailed off, unwilling to finish. She'd known the small, dorky intern fairly well. And over the past few weeks, with all of the apologies and random facts…she'd grown fond of him. There was a sharp pain in her stomach, and it wasn't from the baby.

"No. I'm on my way to the hospital with her right now."

"We'll meet you there." As the line went dead, she regretted not asking more. When? How? _Why_? With a deep breath, she turned to her husband. "Brodsky shot Vincent," Angela echoed the words that Booth had spoken just a few moments before. "We need to get the hospital right now."

There was a sense of urgency in his wife's voice that alarmed him. "Brodsky…oh god," Hodgins shook his head, "He's such a sweet guy. I can't believe…" he paused. "I'll go get the car. Don't move." The entomologist bolted, flying back up the street.

Angela stared out at the street, watching various vehicles drive by. Going about their business like nothing was wrong. She felt a prickle of anger at them, anger for their indifference, the emotionless rush. And jealousy. Jealous that the drivers and passengers could still go about their day normally, jealous because one of her co-workers had been shot, not one of theirs. The past five minutes seemed like a dream. A small part of her brain refused to accept it. There was no way that Mister Vincent Nigel-Murray could have been shot by the renegade sniper. But he had.

And even worse, Brodsky was still out there.


	2. Breaking of Glasses and News

If one said that Wendell Bray was without determination, then they would surely be a liar, or sorely misinformed. The intern had borrowed money from no less than every single person in his town to go to college, and was still working on paying them back. It would have been easier if he wasn't inches away from broke. Granted, the extra lab hours had been an immense help. But not quite enough. And how was he supposed to tell that to Cam? There weren't any more extra hours left to give out. _Excuse me, Dr. Saroyan, I need even more hours. Can your fire one of the other interns so that I can work during then, too? _Yeah. Like that would go over well.

Which explained why he was currently working at a somewhat upscale restaurant. And hating it. It was nothing like the Royal Diner or the Thai place that Dr. Brennan loved. White tablecloths, fancy attire by the patrons, a name he couldn't pronounce because it was in French and so was the menu…Wendell couldn't read French. Had he known that he'd be working at a place of this sort when he was in high school, he wouldn't have taken Spanish. And he had the vague suspicion that the manager knew it. And wanted to fire him.

The day had not been going well so far. He'd woken up late, and somehow managed to overcook a toaster waffle and set off the fire alarm. After calling the front desk ("don't evacuate the building, it's just my breakfast"), and then hitting the fire alarm until it turned off, Wendell had already been running behind. He'd skidded in just in time not to be declared late. The place opened at ten, but the hour before that was spent tidying up, getting section assignments for the day, and trying to find a spare apron because someone had accidently taken theirs home. And conveniently forgotten to bring it back. Then, of course, he'd been put in charge of the tables in the very back- the large tables, with the large parties that generally had, in addition to overzealous adults, screaming children whose parents didn't know that it was appropriate to take them outside if they wouldn't shut up and stop ruining the experience for everyone else.

"Want to switch sections?" It was Martina, one of the few friendly employees there. Her mop of blonde hair was ratty and the natural color was showing in the roots, but her face was simplistically pretty enough for her to hold onto the job. They'd bonded over the mutual need for money- sometimes they skipped lunch together.

Wendell shook his head, "The boss's already pissed off at me. Thanks, though." She offered him an encouraging smile and headed back through the kitchen doors. He watched them swing shut behind her, before turning and heading over to the nearest table, asking if they were ready to order.

Things did not go well. The eldest man (probably the grandfather) seemed to think they were at a Mediterranean restaurant. The mother of the three screaming children insisted she was on a diet and forced him to go through the lowest calorie items on the menu, before ordering a monstrous steak that he couldn't even fathom finishing. The youngest girl was adamant upon a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and the little boy wanted a cheeseburger. Wendell had half a mind to direct the two back home and towards the McDonalds down the road, respectively.

It was hard holding a tray of drinks while talking customers. Being a waiter was more work than he'd imagined.

The blonde intern was about to lose his temper with the grandmother who wanted her escargot served out of shell when his cell phone rang.

Everyone within a ten yard radius turned and stared as a familiar cell phone tune played from his pocket.

_I forgot to put it on mute this morning…_ Wendell realized with dismay. _And why the hell is it in my apron pocket?_ The damage was already done, might as well see who it was. He reached into the pocket and pulled out the small ringing device, staring in confusion at the caller ID. Seeley Booth. Why in the world would the FBI agent call him at a time like this, just when the lunch crowd was coming in? And why would he call at all? The hockey team had taken a break…and it was Vincent's turn at the Jeffersonian to work on the case. And there could only be so many interns in limbo at the same time.

Stifling a sigh of dismay, he flipped the cell open and held it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Vincent got shot."

He didn't talk. He didn't gasp. He didn't even blink. The shock was too much. Like being punched, the wind knocked out of him. Or collapsing and going into shock. Numbness. Frozen. _Please let it be a joke. Not Vince. Not Vince. _

Booth seemed to realized Wendell wasn't going to answer. "We're at the hospital right now…I know you're probably at work somewhere right now…" the agent's voice was heavy, "But I thought you'd want to know." The line went dead.

It was like a flashback to the first day. The first day they'd met, not the first day they'd been working for about a week and a half already. Wendell had been standing out in the parking lot behind the Jeffersonian. Everyone was on lunch break, and a few of the interns had begun sitting together…the annoyingly bubbly girl, and the depressed one…he hadn't known them as Fischer or Daisy yet. Just standing out there, staring at the cars passing by on the street and trying to remember when the bus home was. He didn't have a car at that point. And then that innocent British voice had come out of nowhere. "Did you know that Wombats take around fourteen days to complete their digestive process?"

He'd turned, slowly, to find one of the other new interns staring at him from behind, his mop of brown hair looking almost fluffy. "No," Wendell said, after a moment, "I didn't know that."

"And did you know that a typical worker in Haiti makes the American equivalent of two dollars and seventy five cents a day?"

That had made Wendell laugh, unexpectedly. The other intern…he couldn't quite remember his name right then, had looked a little surprised, and then hurt. Seeing his expression, Wendell had hastened to explain. "Makes our pay look pretty good, doesn't it?" Working at the Jeffersonian, they certainly weren't being cheated of money. But interns only made so much.

The British intern…he had to be British, that, or he spent all his time practicing an impeccable accent…didn't say anything for a moment. Then he tilted his head to the side. "Why aren't you eating lunch with the others?"

Wendell had almost said _why aren't you?_ Almost, but not quite. Instead, he'd raised and lowered one shoulder. "I'm close to broke, actually." He ran a hand through his hair. "And skipping a meal every now and then doesn't hurt anyone." The second sentence was almost a defense.  
>"I'll buy you lunch," the other had offered, suddenly, a small smile on his face. "I was just going out, anyway." Wendell could have said a lot of things. But he'd just nodded. And they'd gone out to some inexpensive sandwich place and true to his word, his companion paid. And then they went back as though nothing had happened.<p>

When he'd left that day, Wendell realized he didn't even know the other intern's name. When he'd admitted that the next day, Vincent had just smiled, "That's alright. I can't say I know yours, either."

Everyone was still staring. Staring at him as he stood there frozen, phone still up to his ear. And staring at the tray that lay on the ground, and all of the smashed glasses. He must have dropped them while Booth was talking...that broke Wendell out of his thoughts. And now the manager was standing there staring, glaring at him, too.

The grandmother cleared her throat, "Clean up that mess, why don't you?"

It wasn't fair that they were sitting in a fancy restaurant, probably working well paying business jobs, earning more than he was working at one of the best anthropology institutes in the world. It wasn't fair that they were acting like that, prissy and disrespectful and thinking they could get away with whatever the hell they wanted. But most of all, it wasn't fair that Vincent had just been gunned down by a sniper, intelligent, quirky Vincent, and they were sitting there like nothing had happened. Wendell lost it.

"Take the shells off your own damn escargot." He practically snarled it, a voice that shocked even himself. Wendell was practically running for the door by the time he had his apron off, shoving it at the manager. One hand still gripped his cell phone as he pushed past the patrons out of the glass doors. _I just lost that job._

Currently, it was the least of his worries.

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><p>Lance Sweets considered himself to be a somewhat accomplished individual. At twenty three years old, he had a master's degree and two doctorates. So why wasn't that good enough for one Daisy Wick?<p>

He'd been to visit Zach Addy earlier that morning and the former lab assistant was still stubbornly refusing to let him tell Dr. Brennan. Sweets had left feeling extremely discouraged, as always with the genius in the mental institute. If only Dr. Addy would let him tell someone. There had to be some way to get him off the hook, some way to come up with some sort of thing that would allow Zach to be back at the lab and competing for the title of king.

In his car, he'd started to dial Daisy, and that was when he'd seen her text. Her 'im breaking up w/ u' text. A quick phone call had confirmed that no, she had not been a drunken stupor, no, it had not been hormones, and yes, they were so through. The young psychologist currently sat in the Royal diner drinking a cup of coffee, not having the nicest thoughts about life in general.

The waitress offered him a sympathetic smile as she walked by. The team dropped by the diner often enough that everyone who worked there could recognize all of them. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No, thank you." He faked a smile. There was nothing to be happy about at the current moment. Addy was as stubborn as ever. His girlfriend had just broken up with him. Brodsky was still out there. And Sweets had just looked down to realize that he was wearing mismatched socks.

That was when his cell phone rang. Booth. Either the FBI agent was mad at him, or wanted something. He never just called for the sake of calling. Rather than answering, Sweets tossed to cell phone onto the table and checked his watch. Booth could wait. The Founding Fathers opened in two hours, and he had every intent of being there right when it did. The breakup had bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Things had seemed on and off, shaky and uncertain, and without a clear path for a period of time. But then it seemed as though they were back to normal.

Until today. And Sweets had every intention of taking 'drown sorrows at a bar' as literally as possible, without dunking his head in a bucket and having someone hold it under.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>_This chapter is a bit shorter than I wanted, partially because I couldn't get as much as I wanted out of the scene with Sweets, and also because there was supposed to be another section in this chapter including Cam and Michelle, but it made it a bit too long. Next chapter should also be getting back to Bones and Booth, and one or two more of the interns. _


	3. Of Thinking Things

Sometimes silence was more painful than shouting.

Silence wasn't like a bomb. It wasn't like a gun. There was no sudden jarring, overwhelming pain. It crept up on you. Like a blade digging into flesh, deeper and deeper, more and more blood flowing until you couldn't take it anymore. That was silence.

And there was no noise in Cam's office.

The pathologist sat at her desk, staring out the window. Her lips were pursed, hair mussed; no longer the epitome of a leader. Not that she'd ever been. And certainly not after this. It was the responsibility of a leader to keep her team safe. To take one for the team every time, to keep the bullet from striking the person it was intended to. Cam was trying to think like Brennan or Zack. Trying to use logic. She had not pulled the trigger or pointed the gun. She had not been careless, she had not assisted Brodsky in any way. And yet there was the nagging feeling that it was her fault.

Booth's call had come five minutes ago, a horrible slap to the face that they still didn't have Brodsky. He'd sounded almost distraught, as worried about Brennan as he was Vincent. No doubt he was the one making all the calls. Letting everyone know what had just happened to one of their squinterns. There were details to be gotten, as the FBI agent had said a total of two sentences to her. But he probably had only wanted to say it once. And she couldn't blame him. Squinterns were not supposed to get hurt.

_I have to call his mother. _She realized. Of course. It was her responsibility to notify the family members of anyone injured or killed working at the Jeffersonian.

It helped to take things step by step. _First, you need to stand up from your desk, Cam. Then you need to go over to the drawers across the room. Then you need to open the bottom one, Cam. _

She was kneeling on the wood floor, taking out a thick manila folder when the quiet voice sounded behind her. "Hey." It was Michelle.

Cam turned, offering her adopted daughter a weak smile. Michelle still wore her name badge from her day at work, she'd come right to the Institute, by the looks of it. "How was your day?" It was an effort to get the words out, as she stayed sitting back on her heels.

"Fine…" her daughter frowned. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"That obvious, huh?" Cam stood, brushing off her pants. Only some of the dust came off, leaving her black pants stained grey at the knee. Some part of her brain registered that it was time to vacuum.

"Did someone get hurt?" Michelle's eyes were wide as she took a step closer. Out of the doorway. Then a few more, so she was standing behind Cam, peering over her shoulder at the folder that her mother had just set on the desk.

"I don't think you know them," it was pointless, trying to protect Michelle from the information. Absolutely pointless. She would find out by the end of the day, regardless of whether or not Cam let her know. Cam walked back around her desk and sat, turning the folder to face her. Nigel-Murray was printed neatly in black sharpie marker across the front, along with the 'emergency contact information' stamp.

"Who?" Michelle demanded, just as Cam had known she would.

"Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray." She said, trying to keep her voice even. "He was shot earlier today."

Silence for a few moments. Not as bad as before, though. Silence was better shared. Then, "Is he…" Michelle's voice was fearful, as she didn't finish her question. It was easy enough to guess exactly what she meant.

"No, he's not." Cam reached up and brushed a strand of hair out of her daughter's face. "But close. Dr. Brennan and Seeley are at the hospital right now." She paused. "I have to call his mother. And tell her what happened to her son." _What would I do if I got that call? _Cam wondered. _If someone halfway across the world told me that had happened to Michelle? _She didn't want to think about it.

Michelle stared at Cam for a moment, lips parted, forming a small 'o'. The two stayed frozen a moment. Then Michelle quietly walked around the other side of the desk, and wrapped her arms around her mom.

They stayed like that for five…ten…twenty seconds. Frozen.

"Thank you, honey." Murmured Cam, running a hand through her daughter's hair. Michelle didn't respond. When they finally broke apart, Cam took a deep breath, flipping open the folder.

A large part of her wanted to wait, wait until they had news or some idea of how he was going to be. But as a mother…she wouldn't want to hear about Michelle being shot after she had died. Not if there had been a chance for her to say goodbye. She picked up the phone, all too aware that her hands were trembling. She punched in the numbers almost robotically, and then held it up to her ear.

One ring. Maybe she wouldn't pick up.

Two rings. What was she supposed to do if Mrs. Nigel-Murray didn't answer? Call back later? Leave a message?

Three rings. What did you say in that kind of message, anyway? Everything? Nothing? To call back because it was urgent?

She answered on the fourth ring. The voice was obviously a British female. "Vincent?"

"No, Mrs. Nigel- Murray. This is Camille Saroyan. I'm the Head of the Forensic Division at the Jeffersonian Institute." Cam was surprised to hear how calm her voice sounded. Calm and detached. And almost robotic.

"Is something…wrong?" There was obvious concern in the women's voice on the other end. Concern, but not fear.

"I'm…" Cam trailed off, "I'm calling to notify you…" she stopped again, taking a deep breath, closing her eyes. Michelle squeezed her hand, eyes brimming with sympathy.

_I can't back down now. _"Mrs. Nigel Murray, our team has recently been involved in the investigation of several murders believed to be traced back to a renegade sniper, Jacob Brodsky. He was working with Dr. Temperance Brennan and Agent Seeley Booth in the lab earlier today."

"He's mentioned Dr. Brennan before…he speaks very highly of her…" his mother obviously had no idea where this was going.

"Your son, Vincent, was shot earlier today. He was inside the Institute when it happened." She'd gotten the full account from a security guard who'd been on the scene. Booth hadn't wanted to repeat it. "We believe Brodsky was responsible." Perhaps it had been too abrupt, too blatant and blunt. But there was no taking back the words now.

A gasp from the other end of the line. Then a brief silence. "Is he…" her voice was trembling.

"No," she said it louder, more hastily, than she'd intended. "No," Cam's tone was more gentle the second time. "But he's currently in surgery, and in critical condition."

"Will…" her voice was faint, "Will he pull through?"

"We're not sure yet." Cam gripped Michelle's hand more tightly, knowing she would be eternally, selfishly grateful that it had not been her.

Silence. And then a somewhat choked sob, "Oh, god. He said it was safe."

"It is safe, ma'am, he doesn't work in the field…" Cam trailed off, knowing that her words were falling on deaf, uncaring ears. It didn't matter if the job was supposed to be safe. Not if your child was inches from death.

There was sound in the background, another voice, male. "Mom, what is it?" Static from the phone, and then a different person was talking to her. "What happened to Vinnie?" He sounded remarkably like the British intern, but his voice was noticeably deeper. _Vinnie…_she hadn't known he had a nickname.

"This is Camille Saroyan from the-"

"I don't care who in the bloody hell you are. What happened to my brother?" Cam was saved from repeating herself by the fuzzy, choked up explanation that was offered by Vincent's mother on the mother end of the line. "What do you…he's a bloody bone expert, not a cop!" Now he was yelling at her again, "How did it happen?" The intensity in his voice was frightening. "Forget it. Dammit!" He swore, muttering under his breath, "And we're in the middle of the bloody festival…" the line went dead.

Cam stared at the phone, silent. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but it hadn't been that. "I didn't know he had a brother." She finally said, resting her elbows on her desk and putting her head in her hands.

"Who was that?" Cam hadn't heard Angela walk in, but now the artist was standing in the doorway. One hand was placed across her swelling belly, the other was smoothing her hair. "Hodgins said we should pick you up…something about going as a group." She sounded almost scornful, but Cam knew it was an attempt not to cry. "I think we all do. This is as bad as the Epps thing." There was another break in her speech, "You know, with the powder, when you started foaming at the mouth and then Zach nearly got blown up trying to get the poison…"

"I know what the Epps thing was, Angela," Cam sighed, pulling her daughter closer for a hug. Michelle gave her a wide eyed, questioning look. "It's fine, Michelle. It was a long time ago."

Angela glanced between Cam and her daughter, and appeared to choose to remain silent. "Can you drop Michelle home on our way?" Cam asked, letting go of the girl again, and standing up.

"No, Cam. I want to come."

Cam hadn't expected that. She turned, tilting her head to the side, with a frown, "Michelle, you didn't-"

"He talked to me about colleges. Even though you threatened to strangle him," her daughter offered her a small, sad smile. "He said I should try studying abroad for a semester, wherever I went. Either at Cambridge or Oxford or _something_. Because it would be a good experience," her eyes welled up, "My teacher agreed with him." She shook her head, "You're always talking about your little surrogate family at the lab. I'm part of it, too, even if I'm not usually here."

Cam wordlessly nodded. Angela glanced between them, and then turned and headed out towards the car. Cam and Michelle followed.

* * *

><p>Arastoo wasn't sure why he'd gone out to an extremely late lunch, let alone with Fischer. The two of them had been lurking around in limbo with nothing to do, horribly bored because Dr. Brennan had never given them instructions. She'd never even showed up to give them instructions, actually. And Fischer had been moping around, droning about rehab and whatnot because he didn't have any of that disgusting tea.<p>

"Let's go out and get some food," Arastoo had finally said, exasperated.

Fischer had stared at him dully, before morosely agreeing with an 'I guess I can do that." They'd ended up at some junky pizza place, sitting across from each other in a plastic booth. Arastoo, being the polite one of the two, had made several attempts to start up some sort of conversation. All of them had resulted in uninvited complaining and an increasing urge to hit his head against the wall.

Arastoo was just about ready to leave Fischer in the restaurant and head back to the Jeffersonian when his companion's phone went off. The other intern let out a morose, seemingly practiced sigh, as he held it up to his ear. "Hello?"

Whatever had been expected, it hadn't been the expression that slid onto Fischer's face. Shocked? Horrified? Somewhat panicked? Whatever it was, it wasn't good. "Fischer…" he murmured.

He hadn't expected Fischer to give him a glare and elbow him, fingers clenching the phone so tightly that his knuckles were going white. Silence for a few seconds. Then, "How did it happen?"

More silence. Arastoo shifted uncomfortably, eyes on the clock behind them. "We're…we'll come." Fischer shoved his phone in his pocket, scrambling up, grabbing the other intern's elbow. When Arastoo tried to pull away, his companion gripped his arm tighter. "We need to go _now." _He dragged the Islamic intern towards the door.

"Wait, Fischer, slow down. What happened?" Arastoo frowned.

Fischer gave his arm another tug, "Vincent just got shot, dammit!

Normally, he would have been embarrassed to be with someone who shouted something that loudly in a restaurant. But despite the fact everyone was staring at them…Arastoo couldn't have cared any less if he'd tried. "What…" his voice was hoarse. _How did it happen? Why? Wasn't he in the lab today? _

"Move your ass, or I won't tell you anything." Fischer finally succeeded in hauling the other intern at the door, and then went bolting for the car. Arastoo stood frozen in the doorway for only a moment, and then ran after him.

Vincent…he hadn't known the other intern well, not right away. They'd worked different shifts, and though they saw each other at lunch, and the Founding Fathers every Friday, they hadn't really talked. Usually, everyone ordered a single shot to start. Except for himself, of course. While the others drank shots, he consumed copious amounts of Diet Coke. His usual aversion to others drinking was put aside for the sake of a goof time. So long as he didn't have anything, it wasn't against his religion, after all.

Then, one Friday, it had been four shots and two Diet Cokes. It had been confusing. Arastoo hadn't been able to figure it out right away. Who hadn't ordered a drink? Wendell always ordered their drinks, but he had a shot glass in front of him. That left four. Daisy. Fischer. Clark.

Of course. The small British intern, who always sat next to Wendell. Vincent Nigel-Murray. He held the same type of glass as Arastoo, paying the other intern no mind as he argued playfully with Daisy. There was nothing different about him…at first glance. When he really stared…Vincent was thinner. More tired looking. But it wasn't the kind of thing you'd notice. Not if you were looking for it.

Arastoo had been mostly quiet for the rest of the gathering, puzzling over the matter. No one had noticed; he was generally quiet, anyway. Or at least he'd thought so. As he'd escourted the bunch to the car- he was designated driver, naturally- Wendell had tapped his shoulder.

"Dude, you okay? You were quiet this evening." The blonde intern frowned.

Arastoo glanced over his shoulder. Daisy was clinging giddily to Fischer's arm. Fischer was tripping over his own feet. Clark and Vincent were close behind the two, laughing, trying to keep them on their feet. Not close enough to hear. "Vincent didn't drink tonight."

Comprehension dawned on Wendell's face, and a frown flitted across it, "That's…you should ask him." He said, falling back in line with the rest of the interns, grabbing Fischer's shoulders just as he teetered forward.

So he did. Arastoo made sure Vincent ended up in the passenger seat, and turned the radio up loud. When he was sure the others were engaged in conversation, he turned to the British intern. "So…you and I both stayed dry tonight," he tried to keep the tone light. He wasn't trying to pry. In fact, he wasn't sure why he even cared. But he couldn't push down a prickle of worry. Vincent had always drank as much, perhaps more, than the rest. It just seemed so out of character.

"Yeah. Uhm." Vincent glanced out the window. "Did you know that every year, Americans throw out enough soda bottles and cans to reach the moon and come back twenty times?"

Arastoo was silent for a moment, realizing the British intern was hesitant to talk. "You don't have to tell me," he finally said.

A pause, and then, "No. It's fine. Wendell said I should talk to people about it, anyway." Vincent cracked a smile, "I seem to have developed a…drinking issue…during my travels."

It took Arastoo a moment to process that, "Oh. So you're…"

"A member of the AA, as of last Sunday," he said, simply.

Vincent Nigel-Murray was recovering from an alcohol addiction, and the only person who knew was Wendell Bray. Dr. Brennan needed to know. It wasn't right for him to have to deal with it on his own. And even if the forensic anthropologist wasn't going to be supportive, it wasn't the kind of thing to keep under the wraps…

It had been as though Vincent could read his thoughts. "Ah…I'd be…very much appreciative if you could keep that to yourself, for the time being. The rest of them will know when I have to apologize for my misdeeds." So he had.

When they reached the car, Fischer was tugging at the handle of the passenger seat like a small, impatient child. "Open the door! Vincent could be dying while you waddle along at the rate of a damn sloth!"

Vincent could be dying…it hadn't really hit until now. And it hurt.

* * *

><p>The plastic chairs in the waiting room were uncomfortable, cold, unwelcoming. This Agent Booth knew from sitting in the seats, waiting to hear the news about fellow soldiers. It hadn't often been anything good. He hated to see Brennan sitting there, hands gripping the armrests, looking at the door leading to where the patients were every few seconds.<p>

He'd stepped outside to make the calls. There was no need to make Dr. Brennan hear him announce the British intern's plight over four times. Now he hurried back inside, sitting next to her, instinctively sliding an arm around her shoulders. "Any news yet?" He murmured.

She shook her head, biting her lip, tears threatening to spill over onto her cheeks again. Booth wished he knew the right words to say. He didn't. Bones finally sat back shoulders slumping in defeat, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

They stayed like that for a long time. He wasn't sure how long exactly, but at least an hour. Every time the door opened, they would both stiffen. Only to have the doctor call a different name. Parents cried in relief that their children would be okay. Wives hurried in to see their injured husbands. Sisters hugged their brothers as they limped out, using crutches with legs in casts. There was no news of Vincent.

"Did you call everyone?" Brennan finally whispered.

"Yeah," Booth said, closing his eyes, pushing back the memories. He was no longer sure about telling them over the phone, but it was too late now.

"Temperance Brennan?" A woman with greying brown hair stepped through the door, glancing around the waiting room.

Brennan was on her feet quick as a flash, standing over by the doctor within seconds. "Is Vincent okay?"

She took a deep breath, "Vincent Nigel Murray just came out of surgery. The ballistic wound caused him to lose a lot of blood. It's a miracle he didn't die from blood loss before we got him here."

"Go on," Booth prompted.

"The bullet pierced one of his lungs. It also shattered two ribs, and broke another. The shattered bone punctured his other rib. He's currently on life support…a ventilator. He can't breathe on his own at this point. The blood loss caused him to go into shock." She paused. "Our biggest concern right now is that he'll go into cardiac arrest, and there's not a good chance that he'll pull through if that happens. We're also not sure if he'll wake up, the rapid blood loss caused a lack of oxygen to his brain for a period of time. We had to give him blood transfusions."

"What are his chances?" Booth asked, a hand on his partner's shoulder.

The doctor pursued her lips. "At this point? Not good."

"I want a statistic," his voice was harsher than he meant it to be. But Bones needed facts, not generalizations.

She sighed, "About twenty-five percent. Call his family."

"Already done." Booth pulled Brennan closer.

"Can we…" Brennan faltered, "Can we see him?"

The doctor nodded, and wordlessly turned and led them down the hall. Booth moved quickly, keeping Bones moving along, trying to keep her from noticing the ICU sign as they walked through the double doors leading to the private rooms in the unit.

He looked smaller against the white sheets, with the ventilator and IV drip and monitors and systems occupying much of the room space. His face was deathly pale, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. Two chairs, considerably more comfortable looking than those in the waiting room, sat next to the bed. Booth sat down in one of them, but Brennan was over by the bed instantly. Leaning over the bed, she brushed his hair out of his face. One of her tears dripped onto the pillow. "Vincent, I don't know if you can hear me right now. But if you can," she swallowed. "You need to get through this, Vincent. We have the conference, remember? Hodgins even motorized the dinosaur suit. I can't do it without you." Her voice had taken on a desperate edge, and she reached over and clasped one of his pale hands. "You're my favorite, Vincent. You're my favorite." She turned and looked at Booth, eyes pleading for him to do something. Looking at him as though he had the power to wake Vincent up.

And once again, there was nothing he could do. But damn, he would've given the world to be able to.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>_Hopefully I haven't started to bore you all yet. Reviews would be much appreciated!_


	4. Drinking and Dismal Droning

Jack Hodgins had been in many difficult situations. He had nearly been killed at least three times during murder investigations, and had been rejected by Angela more times than he could count (before they'd finally gotten married in a jail cell). And yet, he still found sitting in Vincent's hospital room alone to be…painful.

It was twelve o'clock at night. Dr. Brennan had finally needed to get up from where she sat on the edge of Vincent's bed to use the bathroom. Angela had gone with her, giving the small intern a nervous look as she followed her friend out. Cam had taken Michelle home just a few minutes ago, despite her daughter's desire to stay. Fischer and Wendell had gone home nearly half an hour before, with the promise that they would be called if there was any change at all. Arastoo had gone with them. Agent Booth had left nearly half an hour ago to 'go get the duckling'. Hodgins hadn't pushed the issue. He had other things to think about. And they hadn't been able to get into contact with Daisy.

It wasn't so much that he had any particular attention to Vincent…well, that was a bit of a lie. Since they'd been working on the dinosaur project, he'd begun to think of the young man more as a friend. It wasn't the first experiment they'd done together either. Though Cam was now almost paranoid when it came to cannons, firing one indoors had been more than worth it. After he'd lost Zach…it had been harder.

Zach, despite his lacking knowledge of relating to others, acting human, and normality in general, had been his closest friend. There was something about Zach that he'd just understood. And Zach had understood him. After he'd Zach had been admitted…Hodgins had been sure he'd never have a friend anywhere near that again.

And then Vincent had showed up. Small, none too athletic, overly intelligent, squinty as the rest. And annoying as hell. Which was exactly how he'd thought of Zach, when he'd first shown up. They hadn't hit it off well, at first- him and Vincent. It was almost as though history was repeating itself. The initial irritatation, and then the slow warming up. The thrilling feeling when they'd done their first experiment together. And though the Brit hadn't ended up living above his garage…

Granted, he hadn't been a replacement for Zach. But he'd helped fill a little bit of the void that Dr. Brennan's assistant had left when they'd put him in the asylum. Insane, his ass. Zachary Uriah Addy was more sane than he was.

Glancing over his shoulder to ensure that no one else was in the room, Dr. Jack Hodgins stood and walked over to stand right next to Vincent's bed. He leaned over the still figure, staring it him. _Please wake up right now. _It didn't work, obviously. Telekinesis and telepathy were the stuff of movies. Taking one of Vincent's cold, clammy hands in one of his own, Hodgins touched his forehead briefly with the other.

"Hey, kiddo." It was silly talking to someone unconscious. They couldn't hear you. But he was doing it all the same. "Hey, Vince. I know that's what Wendell calls you when you're upset. Or sick. Or whatever." Hodgins paused, taking a deep breath. "We miss you, kiddo. Even though you're right here and it's only been half a day. You're tough. You can handle this. It was just a stupid bullet." He swallowed, "You've got that conference, you know. It's this weekend, Vince. You can't miss the conference. You've been working on it for forever with Dr. Brennan. She can't present it alone. It's not hers, it's both of yours." He paused, closing his eyes. He hadn't cried in a long time. Not since Zach had gone, and even then it had been alone, sitting in his car with the radio up loud. Certainly not in a hospital. God, he hated hospitals. "You know what I'm talking about. With the damn dinosaur costume that I spent all that time working on so that'd would actually work." Hodgins fell silent for a moment, "Dr. Brennan needs you. You're her favorite. And you haven't even gotten a chance to meet Ange's baby…"

Hodgins trailed off. "I sound like a goddamn idiot." A few moments later, there was a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to the side slightly. Angela.

She offered him a watery smile, "Bren said we should just go home," she took a deep breath. "With the baby and all…and there's not anything we can do for him here. Not here, not anywhere else."

"Brennan's staying," he said, stupidly. _Idiot._ Why was he arguing with his wife? Not arguing, exactly, but disputing something with her. He took a few steps back from the bed, away from Vincent. Angela wrapped her arms around him, and he did the same. Holding her. Because that's what they all needed, really. Someone to rely on. She seemed to understand it wasn't a protest, just a statement.

"She's staying because she feels responsible. I tried reasoning with her…" Angela paused, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "I don't believe in 'impossible', but it's as close to that as things get, convincing her to leave. She says she wants to be here when he wakes up." There was a pained look on her face. A pained look that clearly said what they both knew. _If he woke up. If._

Hodgins nodded, "Does she know we're going? And what's Booth up to?"

Angela nodded, and then grimaced, "He's picking Dr. Lance Sweets up from a bar," she shook her head, "Something about a breakup with Daisy." She finally pulled away from him. "That would probably explain why Booth couldn't reach her earlier."

"Probably?" Hodgins snorted, "That's raw explanation if there ever is such a thing."

Angela opened her mouth to reply, but before she had a chance to finish, Brennan walked in. Her eyes were red and puffy, as they had been since the arrival to the hospital. "Is Booth back yet?" As the two shook their heads, she nodded, and then sat down on the edge of Vincent's bed. The same position she'd been in earlier. Within a few moments, Hodgins knew, the anthropologist would start babbling to her intern and grad student, talking about mundane things like the weather and recipes and her mother, but mostly how brilliant he was. How they needed him. How she didn't think his facts were stupid, at least not all the time.

Dr. Brennan turned her head to look at Angela, "Call Dr. Saroyan, please."

Angela gave her friend a blank look, "Why? What am I telling her?"

"You're telling her to call the conference director and tell him to reschedule the conference. I have no intention of presenting without Mr. Nigel-Murray."

Comprehension dawned on the artist's face. "Oh, sweetie…" she trailed off. Logically, she could explain that rescheduling the conference was about as likely as a pig flying. But it wouldn't help the situation. Or Dr. Brennan. "I'll…I'll talk to her." Gripping her husband's hand tightly, she pulled him towards the door.

Once they were in the hallway, Angela turned to Hodgins, giving him a somewhat strained smile, "How do you think that's going to go over with the conference director?"

"I'm not so much worried about the conference director. I'm more worried about Cam."

For the first time since Vincent had been wounded, Angela laughed. But it wasn't a completely happy, carefree sound. There were tears in the corners of her eyes.

* * *

><p>The Founding Fathers was the last place Booth had been planning on going that night, with Vincent in the hospital, Dr. Brennan in emotional turmoil, and Brodsky still out and about and dangerous as hell.<p>

The conversation they'd had just before he'd left had not been particularly encouraging, either. "Bones," she was sitting next to Vincent, staring at him with dull blue eyes, having finished her story about one of their cases. "Bones."

She turned and looked at him, after what seemed to be a lifetime. "Booth?" Her voice was wavering, childlike and helpless.

"I finally got in contact with Sweets," he said, straightening his tie.

"You did?"

"Yeah. He's at the Founding Fathers. Completely smashed." The agent called Lance Sweets three times, three damn times, before the young man had finally picked up. His voice had been slurred, too loud- the psychologist was obviously drunk.

"Oh. You should go get him, then." Brennan turned back to watching her ailing intern.

"You should come with me, Bones. Brodsky's still out there. And I can't keep an eye on you if you're here and I'm somewhere else."

"Booth, Brodsky's not a threat anymore," Brennan sounded tired, rubbing her eyes, before dropping her hand to clasp Vincent's again. "He did his job."

"Bones…" that was when realization dawned on Booth. The same thing that his partner had realized many hours before. "He was trying to kill me. He thinks he killed me…"

The anthropologist slowly, tears glistening in her eyes. "It could have been you…" she paused, giving Vincent's hand a squeeze. "I'm so glad it wasn't you…but he has to make it through this."

Booth hadn't known what to say to that, so he'd been quiet for a minute. Normally, guilt would have been eating away at him, tearing his heart to pieces. But it wasn't. Because it wasn't his fault. It was Brodsky's. There was no time for guilt, or self-pity, or wallowing in self-hate and pain. He needed to be strong for Bones. And Vincent.

And his former mentor wasn't stupid. It wouldn't be long before the renegade sniper figured out he'd shot the wrong man. "I'm going to pick up Sweets. Then I'll come back for you, okay?"

She had only nodded.

Seeley Booth pulled into the parking lot of the Founding Fathers. It was still full, despite the fact it was technically the next morning. He ended up leaving his car right near the exit ramp- probably would've been easier to leave it on the street, in hindsight. He dodged swerving cars and drunken couples and gaggles of girls stumbling across the asphalt and clumped near the entrance, ducking in. What was it, get your senses shot to hell night? Maybe he was just oversensitive to the crowd. Oversensitive to everything, actually, at that point. He stepped inside, relieved to see that most of the crowd was outside and struggling to identify their vehicles.

Sweets was sitting at the counter, slumped over, forehead pressed against the faux wood counter. He didn't even look up as Booth approached.

His irritation and anger for the young man evaporated. It wasn't like the psychologist was supposed to somehow know that Brodsky had shot one of their interns. "Sweets," Booth frowned.

Sweets lifted his head, blinking blearily at the FBI agent, "Hi, Booth," he slurred. "Guess what! Zach is innocen' and they didn't show South Park reruns on the discov'ry channel t'day."

Yup. He was drop dead drunk. Booth grabbed Sweets by the elbow, wrapping his other arm around the smaller man's shoulders, and began to lead him towards the door. He shot the bartender an irritable glare. "Don't let the kid get so damn drunk next time." The man behind the counter wisely kept his mouth closed.

Sweets remained mostly silent as Booth lead him out towards the car, around the drunk groups (who hadn't made much progress). The kid was going to have a lot of explaining to do the next morning, but he wasn't going to ask questions. Drunk people weren't usually too good at offering explanations, and Sweets was surely no exception.

As soon as they were in the car, Sweets began talking, "You're not listening! It was…was like an ep'sode of Law an' Order, only no one died a'the end."

It was going to be a long ride.

* * *

><p>Wendell stared at the Television. ABC, CBS, NBC. CNN, FOX, BET, MTV. He flipped through the channels every few seconds. All of it looked the same, sounded the same, was the same. Booth had sent him home many hours before, with Arastoo and Fischer. The digital clock beneath the television set now read 3:17. He wasn't going to get any sleep that night. I Love Lucy. Modern Family, Two and a Half Men, Iron Chef. Seinfeld, Friends, Happy Days. Desperate Housewives, Adult Swim, CSI.<p>

He hadn't wanted to go. No one had, really. But it was that unspoken explanation, that horrible statement that meant admitting what could happen to Vincent. _I don't want to leave, and then get the call that he died._

Vincent didn't want to leave, either. _Please don't make me leave. _He'd heard Booth whisper it to Cam, standing in the corner of the hospital room. _Please don't make me leave._ Only Vincent didn't have a choice. He had.

"I can't sleep."

The words came from the hallway of his apartment, and the voice belonged to Fischer. Wendell slowly turned, staring at the other intern as though he were an alien. Silence. Then, "Dude, why are you still in my apartment?"

Fischer rolled his eyes. "Because you never dropped me off back at home, obviously." He paused. And then, of course, for affect, "Son of a bitch."

Wendell glared back at him, not in the mood to get in a catfight with the other intern. That was what girls did, "I liked you better when you were high on all that happy music and tea and shit."

Fischer snorted, sitting down on the couch next to him. "I liked me better then, too."

They had no reason to be fighting. Vincent's condition was no more either of their faults than the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

Fischer seemed to realized this, as well, "Sorry," he muttered, picking at a loose thread on the arm of the couch.

Wendell shrugged, "S'fine. I'm the one who forgot to drop you home."

Fischer shook his head, "I wouldn't want to be home alone tonight. Not with Brodsky. Or Vincent…  
>he trailed off.<p>

"Yeah. I know." Wendell sighed. Silence, except for the TV. He picked up the remote, cutting off Charlie Sheen's voice mid word.

Now it was silent.

He wasn't usually the chatty type, not like Daisy, who needed to fill every spare moment with senseless babble. But maybe it had been better to have the background noise. Something creaked. Both of them flinched.

Wendell ran a hand through his hair. "I helped him get better with American cars, you know."

Fischer looked up at him, knowing very well who the blonde intern meant. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Wendell nodded, smiling to himself. "He was really confused at first, Vincent was. I mean, he could drive, because it wasn't all that different, but one time he almost turned into oncoming traffic. And I've had to pull him out of traffic because it's on the different side of the street, here."

"Like Churchill."

"What?" Wendell stared at Fischer.

"When Winston Churchill was visiting New York City once, he stepped out into oncoming traffic. Because he wasn't used to our traffic laws." Fischer offered. "The only thing that saved him was his really thick fur coat."

"That's the kind of dumb thing only Vince would know." Wendell chuckled. He paused, "Dammit. He's got to make it. He needs to be here when Booth hauls Brodsky's sorry ass to jail.

Fischer just nodded.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> _I'm taking some classes this summer, so updates are going to be about once a week from now on._

_Reviews are much loved! My goal is at least the same number of reviews as the chapter number. So far I've achieved that (one review for chapter one, two for two, and three for three), but it'd be nice to get above that!_


	5. So is Life

Booth wasn't even really sure where the young psychologist lived. Somewhere in DC, obviously, but that wasn't much help. And Sweets surely wouldn't be, either, as he was currently slumped in the passenger seat, one cheek pressed up against the window. But it wasn't like he had any other options. "Sweets, where do you live?"

He held his breath in anticipation, and it was almost a surprise when Sweets lifted his head slightly, and offered in a slurred voice, "'Partment complex on fifth. Third floor…" he trailed of, head falling against the window again. Booth sighed, shaking his head ever so slightly, and then stared out the window, watching the cars go by.

It still all seemed so unreal.

In just a little more than twelve hours, life had taken a drastic turn for the worse. One of Brennan's squinterns had been shot and was on the brink of death. Brodsky was about as close to being caught as America was to paying off the national debt. And instead of comforting his partner, he was driving home Lance Sweets, who was drop dead drunk. Yep. Things were screwed. "If you weren't useful, Sweets, I would pull out my gun and shoot you right now." Booth informed him. His heart wasn't in the threat.

The light turned green. Booth stomped on the pedal almost mechanically, driving across the intersection and up the next street. Fifth was closer than he'd thought Sweets would be to the Institute. Then again, Fifth was a large street… "Sweets, what's the number of the building?"

"Guess," the psychologist offered him a toothy grin.

"Tell me, or you will regret ever having been born."

"Guess."

Dear lord.

* * *

><p>Dr. Temperance Brennan was not a weak women. She had solved countless murder investigations. She had a license for a gun and was more than capable of defending herself. And she was a bestselling author. She was anything but weak.<p>

So then why was she sitting on the edge of Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray's hospital bed, trying not to cry?

She couldn't shake the feeling that it was her fault. She and Booth were the ones who worked in the field. They were the ones who got shot at. They were the ones who crept around in the danger zone, hands gripping their guns so hard that their knuckles turned right. They were the ones who got hurt. Not the interns. And yet Vincent was the one on the brink of death, pale faced, unmoving. Because of her.

"I never called you by your name, Vincent," Brennan murmured, reaching out to touch his forehead. It was cold. Living people weren't supposed to feel cold. The remains were cold, unless they had been cooked. Dead people were cold. Living people weren't. If not for the reassuring beeps of the monitors, she would have thought he was dead. "Not your first name. You were always…" she swallowed, "Mr. Nigel-Murray." _Called. I said called._ The realization hit like a ton of bricks. Called was past tense. Called would mean… "Call," she choked out. "I didn't call you by your first name."

He had so much to live for. The internship at the Jeffersonian was a privilege, an honor. He was the only foreigner to be accepted into the forensics department. And there was that conference, that was right around the corner. They needed to present the discovery together. She couldn't do it alone, not after everything they'd worked on together. "They're rescheduling the conference for you. For us. So that we can do it together." He couldn't become one of the tens of hundreds of other victims they'd worked on. One of the countless young people who had their lives destroyed by a killer.

There was no noise except for the monitors again. Not for another few minutes. Then, "We need you. We don't want you to leave," Brennan's voice took on a desperate edge.

He couldn't hear her. The forensic anthropologist dropped her head into her hands.

"Bones."

She looked up. Booth was standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking tired but determined.  
>"C'mon, let's go home. And you're staying at my apartment tonight. I don't care if Brodsky thinks he got me. It's better to play it safe." There was a clipped edge to his tone, not anger at her, but exhaustion and frustration in general. He wished he could say something like 'he'll still be here in the morning'. But there was no way to know that for sure.<p>

Brennan didn't move for a moment, staring at Vincent's closed eyes. Then she stood slowly, and walked towards him. Her eyes were only half open, slightly swollen and dark from exhaustion. There was no argument. No debate. No plea to stay. Nothing.

The walk out of the hospital was spent in silence, except for when Brennan stopped at the front desk and insisted on giving them her cell number, to call if there was any change. He held her arm tightly the whole time. They didn't speak again until the car ride on the way home, "Did you find Sweets?" Brennan's tone sounded far away.

It took her words a moment to register, "Oh, yeah. The kid was in a bar, drunk as hell." Booth shook his head. "He made me guess his street address."

"Wow."

That was all she had to say? He turned and looked at her, just to make sure it was still Bones. It was. "As much as I want to knock his two front teeth out, I couldn't bring myself to do it. It's not like he had any way of knowing that…" the FBI agent fell silent. Some things were better left unsaid.

They arrived at Booth's apartment a few minutes later. Booth opened the car door for her, taking her hand as they walked to the elevator. His partner was more distraught than he'd even realized before. She arbitrarily pressed buttons, managing to hit three that were not his floor, until he finally grabbed her hand again and pushed the right one. More silence.

When they began arguing over who would take the bed, it began to feel slightly more normal. "Bones, you've had a rough day. A lot happened. You take the bed, I'll sleep on the couch."

"No, Booth, it's your bed. And your house."

"Bones, I'm trying to be a gentleman here. Just take the goddamn bed."

"You need your rest. You have to kill Brodsky. You can't kill Brodsky if you're not at your best."

He wanted to argue with her. But what she was saying made sense. A lot of sense. Booth let out a noncommittal noise and wordlessly nodded, walking over to a cupboard and opening it. He tossed her a spare blanket. The forensic anthropologist barely reacted in time, catching the quilt just before it hit the floor.

Booth headed into his room, grabbing his gun on the way. If Brodsky showed up, as unlikely as it was, at this point, he needed to be ready. The agent pulled off his shoes, and then quickly changed into sweats and an old t-shirt, curling under the covers. It shouldn't have been hard to fall asleep. It was almost three in the morning, and the whole ordeal with Sweets and Vincent…Vincent. He couldn't get the picture of the British intern out of his head. His fluttering eyes. The crimson blood flowing out of the bullet wound in his chest as he trembled on the floor…

The door creaked open.

He was sitting up in an instant, snatching the gun off of the bedside table, pointing it at the intruder.

She let out a little gasp, raising her hands quickly. It wasn't Brodsky. It was-

"Bones?"

Brennan didn't say anything, but lowered her hands, before taking a few steps closer. "He was saying 'please don't make me leave'."

"I know," murmured Booth. _Come closer. Please come closer._

"He was looking at me. While he was talking. Like I was the one who was going to make him go," she drew closer. She was only a step away from the bed. Brennan swallowed, biting her lip. "What kind of person am I, Booth?"

Booth reached up a hand and pulled her closer. She sat down on the bed without further urging. "I wouldn't make him leave. Would I, Booth? Am I some kind of…" her eyes filled with tears, "some kind of monster?"

"Oh, Bones," he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, leaning back against the pillows. "He wasn't talking to you. He was talking to god."

"Vincent was atheist. Like I…" she let out choked sob, burying her head against Booth's chest, shoulders shaking. "Is. Why do I keep saying 'was', Booth?" Her words were punctuated by shaky breaths and cries.

"He was talking to the universe, then." Booth stroked her hair, arms tightening around her.

"If there is a god, he'll let Vincent stay with us," Brennan mumbled, looking up at Booth.

"It doesn't work like that, Bones," he sighed. But it was one of those times he started to wish it did. Anything to make Brennan happy. To show Brodsky he couldn't always win. To let Vincent pull through.

He couldn't do anything about the latter two. Not then, not ever. But maybe there was something he could do to take his partner's mind off things.

* * *

><p>Cam woke up to Michelle staring at her. "Cam, it's eight forty five. You need to be at work at nine." Her daughter's shape was somewhat blurry, and her words sounded distant.<p>

"Hrrrrngh," Cam rubbed her eyes, and blinked a few times. Michelle's image slid into focus. So did the clock on the wall. "Shit…" the head of the lab scrambled up, bolting for her closet. "Don't repeat my language," she called over her shoulder.

She needed a shower. But there wasn't time for one. Not with fifteen minutes to be at work, an unsolved case, a killer on the loose, and an intern in the hospital...

Maybe she would get to work and it would have all been a dream. Everyone would be working on the Brodsky case, even Vincent. He would be peppering them with useless facts. And trying to get them to melt things through unconventional needs, like with hairdryers. Maybe he'd even have an apology or two to offer, some small, insignificant thing that he'd forgotten.

No. Who was she fooling. _Get real, Camille, _she chastised herself, as she buttoned up her shirt. _Fantasizing about a perfect world isn't going to help you solve the case._ She grabbed the hairbrush off of the bathroom counter, yanking it through her hair. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed the worst. She looked horrendous. Ten minutes to be at the Lab. It took that long to get there, even, and that was without traffic.

Screw it. Today was just going to have to be one of those god-awful days where she looked and felt terrible. It would fit in perfectly with the rest of the mood, at any rate. "Michelle!" Cam hurried out of the bathroom, grabbing her purse off of a chair as she went towards the back door. "What are you doing today?"

Her daughter appeared in the doorway of the next room over, fiddling with the ring she was wearing, twisting it around on her finger. "I don't know," she admitted. "Probably stay in the house. Invite friends over?" She shrugged, dropping her hands to her sides.

Cam nodded, with a faint frown, "Just be careful, okay?" Michelle offered her a small smile in response. Cam was almost at the door when her daughter spoke again.

"Can you call me if…" she paused, now twirling a strand of hair around her hand. "If Vincent…"

It took Cam a moment to realize what her daughter was requesting. She closed her eyes briefly, and then nodded, "I'll give you the status update," Cam assured. Status update. Made it sound like a facebook status. And it was anything but. The pathologist headed towards her car with no more conversation, pulling out her phone as she went. She needed to call Brennan, let her know that she was going to be just a little late. And that was without traffic.

* * *

><p>It wasn't that Wendell had never woken someone up before. Quite the contrary, he had pulled people out of slumber enough times to have mastered the skill. But it had never been in a situation quite like this one.<p>

Fischer and Wendell had both fallen asleep. On the couch. Well, sort of. Wendell had fallen asleep on the couch, and Fischer had fallen asleep on Wendell. The blonde intern had woken up to _Good Morning American_ (they'd obviously forgotten to turn the TV off) and no feeling in his arm. Not to mention Mr. Colin Fischer on top of him, still snoozing.

"Fischer," Wendell said, loudly. The brunette didn't stir. "Fischer!" No response. He struggled to get free, but due to the angle he was at, it was harder than this kind of thing looked on TV. Wendell would have slapped the man, except both of his arms were trapped under him.

Fischer snored.

Well, this was awkard. "Fischer!" Wendell yelled. The other intern awoke with a start, eyes widening and breath hitching, as his gaze flickered around the room quickly. "Hey, chill. It's just me." Wendell lowered his voice considerably.

"Oh," Fischer let out an unintelligible mutter and started to close his eyes again.

"What the hell? No, man, you are not going back to sleep." Wendell managed to wiggle out from under the other intern and stand, massaging the arm with no circulation with the one he could still move.

"Did that count as sleeping together?" Fischer asked.

Wendell might have laughed. Except he wasn't sure if Fischer was joking or not. "No," the blonde intern glared at him, before turning to look at the clock on the lamp table. 7:19. They still had time before they needed to be at the Institute. "It does not. I'm taking a shower, feel free to grab whatever in the kitchen." Not that there was a whole lot left. He made a mental note to go grocery shopping when his next paycheck came and he had the time.

"Your apartment looks like it belongs to a homeless guy," Fischer observed, glancing around. The peeling paint, the minimal furniture, the complete mess…the other man would have had a point. Except for the fact that homeless people were homeless.

Wendell didn't bother pointing this out as he headed for the bathroom. Groceries. Clean up the various piles of stuff around the apartment. That was two things on his checklist. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed what Fischer had intended to say but failed to articulate. A longer look made him realize that his apartment was really in a crappy state. He hadn't seen an apartment so messy since…

Vincent. The events of the day before all came rushing back. He buried his head in his hands. One of his closest friends could be dead. Or dying. He had no idea.

_Think about this logically. _A small voice in his head told him. Think. Wouldn't someone have called if Vincent had passed away during the night? They wouldn't just let him show up at work and then find out. No. They would call. And he hadn't fallen asleep until almost four in the morning. That left less than four hours. What was the likelihood of Vincent's death between those hours, compared to the rest of the day? Unlikely.

The logical thing to do would be to hurry up and get ready for work, and then get down to solving the murder. That would be beneficial. That would help put Vincent's assailant behind bars permanently.

And if the situation was reversed, wouldn't that be what Vincent would do?

As he stood in the shower, letting the warm water flow down his back, he couldn't help but think back to the time when Vincent's apartment had been in worse condition than his. When Vincent had first quit drinking. Wendell had always known being an alcoholic was bad. He'd gotten enough drunken texts, and seen Vincent sit at lunch, fidgeting, pale or tired, too many times not to have realized. But he hadn't known how hard it was to stop drinking. Not until then.

The call had come at around one in the morning. He had almost ignored it, glaring at the cell phone charging on his bedside table. It was a Monday night, and work had been tiring. The caller ID read Vincent Nigel-Murray, and the blonde intern had originally only picked up the phone to give his friend a long lecture about letting people get there sleep.

"Wendell."

That one word, his name, had caused all the negative, irritable thoughts in his head to wither, to dissipate as quickly as a microscopic grain of salt dissolving into water. There was so much desperation, so much pain in his voice, that it was frightening. "Vincent. What's wrong?"

"I…" the British intern's voice was unsteady, "I can't sleep." His voice was meek, barely audible.

"And?" That couldn't be all.

There was silence. It stretched out long enough that Wendell thought his friend had hung up. "I'm sorry…I shouldn't have…it's really late…early…" Vincent's voice cracked.

"I'm coming over." Something was wrong, dammit, and that was what friends did. Vincent's apartment was only six blocks away, the drive wasn't more than two minutes. When he'd arrived, he'd hesitated at the door, wondering whether to knock…ring the bell…hope the other intern came to the door eventually…

He tried the door. It was unlocked.

The first thing he'd noted was the state of the apartment. Books and papers littered the floor, covered the table and blocked the doorways. So many books for such a small space. The place was a wreck, "Vincent?" Wendell stepped over a dictionary and around a textbook he'd recognized using in his third year of college. He'd been about to say his name again, when he noticed the intern sitting up against the sink, knees drawn up to his chest, head in his hands. The cell phone lay discarded a few feet away.

"Vincent." Wendell hurried forward, dropping to one knee next to him. Something was wrong. Vincent was shaking, and visibly exhausted. "Have you been drinking?"

"No," his voice was very faint. "I haven't. That's what it is."

"Alcohol withdrawal syndrome," mumbled Wendell. Of course. He'd talked to Vincent about it, delighted that his friend was finally doing something to end his drinking problem. He'd never thought about the other side of it.

"It's been like…like this all week," Vincent's words tumbled out of his mouth more quickly, blue eyes glistening with tears. He quickly covered his face with one hand, trying to hold back the choked sob.

Wendell wasn't much of a hugger. But he found himself holding Vincent tightly, trying to calm him down, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It seemed…it seemed stupid." The other intern's voice had been broken, "All of the…more important things out there that people…people don't deserve and I'm complaining about…something that is my…my fault and I shouldn't because it's selfish."

He had been sweating, and feverish, Wendell remembered. And trying to get through it on his own, because he felt like it was his fault. Maybe it was, partially. Maybe it was, completely. But he was a good person. A good person who had made a mistake and needed help picking up the pieces.

And now he was in a far worse situation. And it hadn't been his fault, at all.

Whoever had said bad things happened to good people was damn right.

A five minute shower uses about ten gallons of water. Wendell could hear that in Vincent's cheerful British voice, just another useless piece of trivia.

Except after this, nothing Vincent said would seem useless.

* * *

><p><em>He was in a place where it was dark, there was no one, and there was in a lot of pain.<em>

_Ripping agony was the only thing registering. And he couldn't open his eyes. Alone._

_No. Wait. Someone there, but he couldn't hear them._

_"We need you."_

_One sentence. That was all._

_Then he was in a world without sound or color or anything at all, back under the waves. Unconsciousness._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: This chapter was a little more ramble-y than I would've liked. Ah, well. So is life. Next chapter is already in progress and will be a bit more focused on the case. Reviews are loved.


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